Barn Dust, Brave Chicks, and the Weight of Doing It All
The sun came up strong and golden this morning, the kind of April light that makes everything shimmer like it’s been dusted with flour. I stood on the porch with my coffee and watched the barn roof glow like it was lit from within.
There’s a clarity to spring sunshine after a week of wind and gray. It doesn’t just light things—it reveals them. And this morning, it revealed something I’d been ignoring: the barn needed a cleaning.
Not a tidy-up. A pull-everything-out, scare-up-the-mice, hose-down-the-corners kind of clean.
So that’s what I did.
Spring Cleaning: Barn Edition
I hauled out:
- Empty feed sacks I meant to fold and reuse
- Two broken rakes, one of which I’d forgotten I broke
- An embarrassing number of baling twine tangles
- A wheelbarrow full of swept-up hay, feathers, and goat hair tumbleweeds
I found an old nest tucked under the feed table—dry and cracked, maybe from last year. I found a bucket of rusted screws that I’d labeled “Fence Stuff” in faded Sharpie. And I found one perfectly intact snake skin behind the saddle rack.
(Needless to say, I cleaned that area last.)
There’s something satisfying about clearing out the barn. It’s more than just dirt and dust. It’s the mental clutter that builds up with every half-done chore and postponed fix. By the time I swept the last corner and leaned the broom against the wall, I felt lighter.
Like I’d made room for new work to begin.
Hazel’s Brave Little Bunch
While the barn aired out, I stopped by the coop for my midday check and found Hazel’s chicks exploring the ramp for the first time.
Hazel stood halfway down the incline, clucking encouragement, while two of the boldest babies fluttered and tumbled their way toward the sun. The others peeped anxiously from the top, unsure whether the adventure was worth it.
It made me smile. Isn’t that just life? Some leap. Some linger. All learn eventually.
I sat down on an overturned bucket and watched for a good twenty minutes as Hazel ushered them in and out, her feathers puffed wide, her eyes sharp. She’s a good mother—gentle when needed, but unafraid to squawk a warning when a chick wanders too close to the rooster.
It reminded me why I let her brood, even when it’s inconvenient.
Because sometimes, the farm needs a little wild instinct to balance all the planning and prep.
A Moment of Weight
Around mid-afternoon, with the barn reorganized and Hazel’s flock settled into their new routine, I walked the garden rows again. The radishes are coming on fast. The garlic is waist-high. And the potatoes I tucked into that slightly-too-wet bed are pushing up just the same.
But somewhere between the asparagus bed and the compost heap, I felt it.
That familiar ache in my shoulders. Not just from the pitchfork or the raking—but the deeper kind. The kind that whispers, “You’re doing this alone.”
And it’s true. This homestead is mine, through and through. I love that. I chose it. But there are moments when the weight of it—every fence post, every feed bill, every emergency—settles on me all at once.
I don’t share that often. Not because I’m ashamed, but because I know it’s part of the rhythm. The push and pull. The pride and pressure.
And today, after cleaning the barn and watching chicks test their wings, I sat on the garden bench, let the wind mess up my hair, and gave myself permission to feel the weight without letting it undo me.
Because carrying it doesn’t mean I have to pretend it’s not heavy.
Supper and Stewardship
Tonight’s dinner was slow and grounding:
- Roasted carrots and parsnips with honey and thyme
- A poached egg over wilted garden greens
- A cup of bone broth from last fall’s batch, heated gently with garlic and bay
I ate it in the barn doorway, watching the sky turn pink behind the goat shelter. The goats were chewing their cud, the hens tucked in, and Hazel’s brood was quiet.
The land was still.
And in that stillness, I remembered something important:
Stewardship isn’t about ease. It’s about intention. It’s about doing the thing—over and over, even when no one sees—because it’s right and good and necessary. Because the chicks deserve a protector. Because the barn deserves a clean slate. Because the land deserves a partner, not a user.
Final Thoughts
Today was not glamorous. But it was real.
A barn swept clean. A mama hen doing her job. A woman tired and proud and honest about both.
Tomorrow, I’ll turn compost. Maybe start building out the chicken tractor. Or maybe I’ll just walk the pasture and listen.
Because part of this life is knowing when to push—and when to pause.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek